


Reclaimed

by Diotima_Philosopher



Series: Catharsis [8]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27289708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diotima_Philosopher/pseuds/Diotima_Philosopher
Summary: After Obi-Wan is confronted with his past, Qui-Gon must help him...any way he can.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: Catharsis [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764220
Comments: 16
Kudos: 38





	Reclaimed

Qui-Gon was only half-reading his abstruse text, as he found himself unable to stop glancing at Obi-Wan, who sat at a table, also reading a datapad, his fair head bent over his studies.

Qui-Gon sighed inwardly. These times together had become far too rare over the past year. The only reason why Obi-Wan was studying in their rooms, rather than the Jedi Library, was that Qui-Gon had informed him that someone from Obi-Wan’s family of origin—previously unknown—needed to contact him about a delicate matter. Qui-Gon had received this cryptic information from the Jedi Council, which, despite the irregularity of the request, had apparently allowed it.

Strangely, at hearing about this, Obi-Wan had displayed an utter lack of interest, merely bowing his head in acquiescence to the instructions when Qui-Gon had told him, sitting down in their rooms to study with a barely audible sigh, as if he would have much preferred to return to the Jedi Library, but was far too polite to say so.

Perhaps Obi-Wan’s reserved reaction was only to be expected. A year ago, almost to the day, Master Stragos Ysi had been exiled from the Order, and since that time, both Qui-Gon and his Padawan had been particularly careful to studiously avoid excesses of emotion, and particularly anything that might even touch upon Pyades, but it was particularly uncomfortable and delicate arrangement, and in the manner of a cracked tooth, they dared not touch it, or anything even near it, lest It flare up in agonizing pain.

Outwardly, things _wer_ e better. Obi-Wan had started to eat regularly, so he didn’t look gaunt anymore, he did not drink to excess, in fact, it seemed he had stopped drinking alcohol at all, and although he was still the best of all the Padawans, and was utterly devoted to his training, the dangerous extremes in his combat sparring had come to a complete halt.

 _No, not better_. _Perfect._ Qui-Gon thought. Obi-Wan no longer had the strange flashes of anger, and the abrupt withdrawals where he fled their rooms to go to the sparring chamber or the Jedi Library.

Yes, all was _perfect_. _Yet._

It seemed to Qui-Gon that this change was not so much an improvement in Obi-Wan as his heart had been cut out from him. Yes, he was never angry, but it seemed less even-tempered than an absence of feeling. And while Obi-Wan no longer brutalized his body, eating regularly, sleeping regularly, it seemed less of a concerted effort to tend to himself as much as a complete and utter indifference to almost everything.

It was as if his Padawan had been replaced by a well-oiled and exquisitely performing automation, a simulacrum of a living being, which responded perfectly to cues but was utterly hollow inside.

Qui-Gon remembered last year when Master Asklepia had told him about the excellent results that Obi-Wan had had from the Bacta. The ugly scar from Pyades, she had told him, with a hint of satisfaction, was now completely gone.

Somehow, Master Asklepia telling him this _hurt_ Qui-Gon, but he was at a loss to explain why. Obi-Wan hadn’t even mentioned that he had changed his mind about going through the Bacta, and had gone on his own to be treated by the Healer. And _of course_ he would want to get rid of that scar, and _of course_ Obi-Wan wouldn’t have to tell Qui-Gon every particular about his medical treatment, but still somehow Qui-Gon was pained about the idea, and he was silent for a moment in front of the Healer, paralyzed in a surging mixture of unwelcome thoughts and strange feelings.

Qui-Gon dared not think of the beauty of Obi-Wan’s naked body. Obi-Wan’s skin had been so fair that his skin had shone in the dim light of their prison.

Qui-Gon also would not allow himself to think of the last time he had seen the scar.

Obi-Wan had come home, his gaunt frame bruised and battered from excessive sparring. Qui-Gon had foolishly had him take off his tunic to tend to Obi-Wan’s wounds, and even injured and half-starved, his Padawan had still been _beautiful_ , as Qui-Gon’s own unthinking words had professed.

 _You could never be ugly,_ Qui-Gon had said.

Qui-Gon had been surprised to see the scar still on Obi-Wan’s thin abdomen. A long silver crescent moon, curving by his hipbone. A mark from Pyades. Obi-Wan bore it on his body, a mark that he had been changed forever.

Qui-Gon had longed to _kiss_ that scar, overwhelmed by Obi-Wan’s vulnerability and beauty.

But Qui-Gon had only commanded Obi-Wan to put his tunic back on, and had turned away.

Qui-Gon was very careful _not_ to remember. As Master Asklepia had talked, Qui-Gon had smoothed over his face and his feelings, and pretended an uncomplicated delight at Obi-Wan’s recovery that he did not feel.

When he had returned that day, Qui-Gon had asked Obi-Wan about the Bacta, the scar, not sure what he was asking or why he cared. Obi-Wan had been very civil but clipped in his replies, but his eyes had slid away to stare at something behind his Master.

After that time, there had been no more questions, as there was no need for questions, as Obi-Wan had gone back to being the perfect Padawan, a true credit to his Master, the best student in the Jedi Order, devoted to his studies and his training, and perfectly proper in all his behavior.

If they never talked of anything besides Jedi philosophy, how could Qui-Gon fault him? If his Padawan spent more time outside their living quarters than ever, between the Jedi Library and the sparring rooms and extra lectures, what was wrong with being dedicated to his studies? Obi-Wan was obedient and always returned at the proper times as directed by his Master for teaching, his meals, and always retired at a decent hour.

Yes, everything was calm and perfect. Yet Qui-Gon found he _missed_ his Padawan, because now everything was _perfect_ , yet none of it seemed _real_.

It was as if the Obi-Wan he knew was _gone_.

Qui-Gon looked at his Padawan’s fair head, bent intently over his datapad.

He wanted to say something to his Padawan, but he had no idea what.

_Should I tell him that I am sorry? For Pyades? For everything? Not that being sorry makes any difference._

His thoughts were broken by the chime at the door. Obi-Wan, very properly for an obedient Padawan, got up immediately to let their visitor in.

Qui-Gon had been told that it was some sort of family member who had to speak to Obi-Wan, but no more than that, so he had not known what to expect.

Obi-Wan had let in a very young man, perhaps no older than twenty. He was _very_ handsome, with thick glossy dark red hair and finely cut features, his eyes a deep soulful brown. He was of obvious means, for he was dressed very simply but the expense was evident in materials and perfect tailoring, rather than in obvious flashy decoration.

“Master, our visitor,” Obi-Wan informed him, unnecessarily, and with what seemed an utter lack of curiosity.

Obi-Wan remained standing, regarding the young man coolly as he waited for him to speak.

“It’s a pleasure to _finally_ meet you, “the young man said, with a nervous smile, putting out his hand, “Taran Farbright.”

“I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi, but you seem to know that already,” Obi-Wan said, shaking his hand politely, “And this is my Master, Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“Master Jedi,” Taran said, bowing his head, “it is _truly_ an honor to meet the famous Qui-Gon Jinn!”

“Thank you,” Qui-Gon said uncomfortably, as he always did, whenever people commented on how he was well-known even outside the Jedi Order, and particularly because the young man seemed genuinely impressed. “But what do you mean by ‘finally’ meeting Obi-Wan?”

Taran laughed, a little uncomfortably, “It is a _long_ story. And a personal one,” he added, looking significantly at Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon nodded, taking no offense, and would have retreated to their sleeping quarters, but Obi-Wan put up a hand.

“No, Master, _stay_.” Obi-Wan turned to Taran, and said, impeccably politely, but with a touch of coolness, “I do not hear anything my Master could not hear.”

“Of _cours_ e,” Taran agreed hastily, realizing he had offended.

Obi-Wan seemed to have forgotten his manners, standing with a datapad still in his left hand, staring at this stranger, so Qui-Gon coughed uncomfortably, and put in, “Won’t you please sit down? I can make some tea, if you would like.”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you Master Jedi,” Taran said, sitting down on one of the chairs at the table. He seemed grateful to finally be sitting, as if he was overwrought with emotion.

After a moment, as if now realizing he was being rude and awkward, Obi-Wan sat down, the datapad in his hand, and in the furthest chair from the other young man, although his face was polite. Not wanting to intrude, but wanting to help this strange encounter, Qui-Gon sat across from their visitor.

“I don’t know how to begin,” Taran confessed, “I’ve imagined this meeting so many times in my mind, and what I would say to you, and now that I am actually _sitting_ with you, I don’t know what to say.” He laughed, self-deprecatingly, “Well, I guess I should just say I am your brother.”

“Excuse me?”

“Half-brother, actually,” Taran amended. “We have the same mother, but not the same father. I have a sister, too, my younger sister. Your half-sister.”

Obi-Wan said nothing, seemingly stunned. As if oblivious to his response, or perhaps talking because he was nervous, Taran went on, “I would have known you _anywhere_. Oh, I have seen you on the HoloNet, with your Master of course. But you look like your _father_. _Very_ like.”

“I look like—“ Obi-Wan said, uncomfortably.

“Your father. I never met him, of course, but I saw holopictures. You look _very_ like him. Except his hair was dark.” Taran looked at Obi-Wan’s blonde hair, cropped short except for the Padawan braid. “You are fair like our mother is. _Was_.”

Obi-Wan said nothing. To fill in the yawning chasm of silence, Qui-Gon put in politely, “I am sorry, does that mean your mother is deceased?”

“Yes,” Taran Farbright said softly, as if the grief was still too near, “It was a long wasting illness, but the family was still shocked, as she was still a very young woman. We did not think she would die—“he cut himself off, “I’m sorry, it’s just still such a shock, and you seem very easy to talk to.” Qui-Gon noted that he spoke to him and not to Obi-Wan.

“It’s fine, please go on,” Qui-Gon said kindly, with a reassuring smile to the young man.

“Then why are you here?” Obi-Wan asked. The question was not rude, but almost so.

“My sister and I wanted to meet you,” Taran said with a nervous smile, “And-I thought you might want some of her—our mother’s things.”

“Jedi are bound to poverty,” Obi-Wan said severely, and then with a trace of coldness, “And I did not know— _her_ , I doubt I would want anything. And your timing is – _unusual_ —if you would like to get acquainted.”

Qui-Gon inwardly winced at his Padawan’s statements, particularly as he saw a hurt reaction in the face of their visitor, so he quickly put in, “I think what my Padawan means, is, with your family in mourning, it is probably a difficult time for all of you."

“Yes,” Taran agreed gratefully, “But we have waited long enough. This is actually our first opportunity to meet our— _Obi-Wan_.”

“And why is that?” Obi-Wan asked sharply.

Taran blew the breath out of his cheeks. “I don’t want to be misunderstood…but my— _our_ mother—“

“She never wanted you to meet me,” Obi-Wan finished for him crisply, “Do I have it right?”

“Yes—“Taran agreed uncomfortably, “it isn’t how it sounds.”

At Obi-Wan’s white unexpressive countenance, Taran blurted, “She—you need to understand! She _loved_ your father so much! _Too_ much! Oh, Lords of Light, she _adored_ him. And then when he _died_ —was killed-“Taran shook his head, “Maybe I’d better start at the beginning, then.”

Obi-Wan offered absolutely no encouragement, but Taran continued to go on, perhaps wanting to just fill the space, “My-our-mother Maya was of high birth. Not that that really means _anything_ ,” he added quickly, obviously not wanting to seem arrogant, “but her family was very proud. Her family was technically House Panteer—“

“The most blue-blooded of any of the Alderaan families,” Qui-Gon put in helpfully.

“Yes, but they also claimed descent from many royal clans due to advantageous marriages, including the House Lorac and House Galfridian,” Taran put in, with a trace of embarrassment. “They were a proud lot.”

“Which is why, when your—our—mother mother was sixteen, and she fell in love with someone considered a nobody, it was something of a _scandal_. She had been promised to a Prince of the K’narr family since birth. But when she met your father—“:

“How did they meet?” Qui-Gon asked encouragingly.

“It’s a story out of a drama on the HoloNet,” Taran said, with a little laugh, “almost unbelievable, honestly. My- _our_ -grandfather had a deep purse, so our mother was unfortunately a target for kidnappers. It didn’t help that our grandfather was almost universally hated. He had his bodyguards, of course, but when Black Sun has its eye on you—“

“In any case, Black Sun had tried to abduct her, right in a public square on Corsuscant. They had already killed our grandfather’s bodyguards, and a young man—your father—seeing what was happening, leapt unarmed into the fray, and managed to wrestle a weapon from one of the blackguards, and overcame them.”

Qui-Gon blinked, “Was he a soldier?”

“No, that’s the wonder of the thing! It turned out what while he had studied Teras Kasi, he was actually an adjunct professor at the University. He had been a very poor scholarship student, from some lowly world on the Outer Rim, who due to his brilliance, had been selected for a full scholarship at the University. He had completed his studies and was working as an adjunct professor in mathematics there.”

“He sounds like someone brilliant I know,” Qui-Gon said, attempting a trace of humor directed at his Padawan, but Obi-Wan did not respond to the gentle jest. Obi-Wan's face was utterly blank, unreadable.

“But that is remarkable, all the same,” Qui-Gon concluded honestly.

“He was a remarkable man,” Taran said, “when offered a monetary award, the young man refused. Our grandfather then I suppose felt honor bound, and offered him a job, and the young man accepted. It was strange, as he was already highly educated at that young age, but became a personal servant of our grandfather, helping him with his accounts, piloting his personal ships, and— _protecting_ his daughter.” Taran coughed, “Some say it was because he was already in love.”

“And my—our— mother was already in love with him,” Taran added, “And from what I hear, it was only _natural_. Like I said, Hohtavan Kenobi was a _remarkable_ man. He had all the women’s heads turned, as he was extremely handsome. And intelligent. They say he was _brilliant_. Talented in combat and as a pilot. And as gracious as a young prince, despite being born to nobody,” Taran exclaimed, “Even now, with him dead so many years, and the scandal of running off with my-our-mother, people in the household still talk about him as if he was some sort of demigod.”

“He was also a good pilot?” Qui-Gon asked significantly.

“Yes, they said he could fly as if he knew what was always coming next. And when he fought—he seemed to always anticipate the attacks of his opponents,” Taran said, “It was _eerie_. Hearing of it made me think—“

“That he was strong in the Force,” finished Qui-Gon.

Taran nodded, “Absolutely no one in our family had any Force gifts, so far as I know. Except you.” He said, looking at Obi-Wan.

“It would make sense,” Qui-Gon said, “If he was born on an Outer Rim planet, it was very likely that he would not be taken by the Jedi. Which planet?”

“Tatooine,” Taran replied.

“That place is a dustbowl, ruled by Hutts. He must have been _truly_ brilliant if someone discovered him and offered him a scholarship here,” Qui-Gon said, “But I have taken you off track, I am afraid. Please go on.”

Taran nodded, “Thank you. I almost hate to go on, as my family was so _stupid_. For despite his obvious gifts he had come basically out of nowhere. No family, no money. It was ridiculous. Whatever his blood was, he was a _prince_. My grandmother even admits it now. He was so superior to everyone else, and yet, our family looked down their noses at him and called him trash. Oh, except our mother. She was in love with him, and the two of them eloped. It drove my grandfather crazy, the way our mother ran away. She would rather have been the wife of Hohtavan Kenobi and live in some squalid part of Coruscant than be a Paneer princess in a palace.”

“Her husband went back to become an adjunct professor, and she—you can imagine our grandfather’s outrage—was talking about going to work to help them scrape by. She was no longer talking to Grandfather, but when our Grandmother told him that, his face was _purple_. He said no child of his would demean themselves by work. As if work is demeaning,” Taran added, “I’m sorry. Some of those families—“

“I understand,” Qui-Gon said. “But what happened to Obi-Wan’s—Hohtavan?”

“He was killed,” Taran said. Seeing Qui-Gon’s expression, he added, “Oh, _no_ , not by our grandfather. I mean, I guess he wanted him dead, but he would never—no, Hohtavan was killed saving someone else. Someone elses. He had taken out mother with him to Tatooine—he may have had some distant family there—I don’t know. My—our—mother never said. But while they were there, apparently Hohtavan seemed convinced something terrible was about to happen. As if he _knew_. And then—he was _right._ A few anti human extremists who wanted to purge Tatooine from human influence had taken a ship loaded with human passengers hostage. Many of the passengers were small children. The “authorities”, such as they were, refused to get involved. I don’t know if they were impotent or utterly corrupt, or were funded by the Hutts…I cannot say.

“But Hohtavan was determined to help. I don’t know how he managed to do this, but he got into the ship and somehow convinced the terrorists to exchange his life, for all the passenger’s lives.”

“Using the Force to persuade, perhaps,” Qui-Gon put in.

“But after they were released, Hohtavan locked himself into the cockpit, and flew the ship into deep space, where it exploded. He had somehow found out—somehow _known_ —that they had rigged the ship to explode, which they had planned to detonate in the city of Anchorhead. Apparently he did not believe there was enough time to dismantle the explosive devices, and chose to fly the ship into space where it could hurt only him. He saved perhaps thousands of lives. He was only twenty-one.”

“He was a hero,” Qui-Gon said, with a look of encouragement at Obi-Wan, who seemingly did not notice.

“He _was_ ,” Taran said emphatically, “even my poor grandmother says it now. My mother never told me about any of this, it was my Grandmother. I think my mother told her—just _once_ —when she first returned home, never to speak of it again.”

Taran sighed, “For my mother returned to her family. Our mother was only eighteen. She had nowhere to live, no money, no prospects, and was out of her mind with grief. So she returned to our family’s home, a widow. A _pregnant_ widow. I think you can figure out the rest.”

“I can,” Obi-Wan replied unhelpfully, then fell silent for a moment, before adding, “You know a lot about my— _him_ ,” Obi-Wan commented.

Taran was quiet for a minute, carefully formulating his answer. “I suppose it was because my mother loved him so much.” He coughed, uneasily, “please _don’t_ get me wrong. My father was a good man, and my mother _loved_ him. She never did marry that Prince of K’narr, because she did not want to, and my grandparents did not fight her on this. Several years later, she met my father, and married him by consent. She married my father _by choice_. But sometimes, I thought that all was left of her as a _shell._ A kind, gracious, loving shell, but still a shell. It was as if her heart died with Hohtavan. I _wanted_ to understand. I wanted to understand _you_.”

Taran went on, uncomfortably, “I think that was why she could never bear to see you. Our grandfather didn’t exactly make her give you up, but she was out of her mind with grief, hardly more than a child herself, and when you were so profoundly gifted in the Force—“

“It was easier,” finished Obi-Wan, his expression unreadable.

Taran nodded, a little uncomfortable at what seemed a harsh statement. “I remember when you would come on the HoloNet. My father knew who you were, of course, and he was always kind. He would point you out, and tell my sister and me that you were our brother, and we should be proud of you. He even said your father was a hero and a great man. But he never said such things in front of our mother. Whenever you came on the Holo she would angrily insist on shutting it off, as if she couldn’t bear to look at you. My sister and I wanted so badly to meet you—and the answer was always _no_. But now that she died—

“You can now satisfy your curiosity,” Obi-Wan said coldly.

“Well, it’s more than curiosity,” Taran said mildly, not taking offense, “You are my brother.”

Obi-Wan said nothing to the statement, only regarded Taran unhelpfully.

“And I have something for you,” Taran put in, after sitting there uncomfortably for a moment. From a pocket he pulled out a finely carved wooden box. “It was our mother’s. It was hidden away in her private rooms; I never saw it, until I found it after she died.”

Obi-Wan gave him absolutely no encouragement, but Taran lifted the lid. It was a holopicture projector, one of the old kinds, but of fine quality.

At opening the lid, there was a holopicture of a young man, with thick dark hair, and dark eyebrows, but otherwise, he was the picture of Obi-Wan. He was dressed in a pilot’s uniform, but he was with elegant grace even in that simple attire, and his smile was dazzling, mischievous.

After a moment, the holopicture cycled to that of a very small baby, rather puny and rather ugly, but the baby’s eyes were open, and the blue of Obi-Wan’s.

Obi-Wan put out his hand, and closed the lid. “Thank you,” he said curtly.

“It’s yours to keep,” Taran said softly.

“Jedi are bound to poverty,” Obi-Wan said coolly, pushing it back towards Taran with a graceful but definite hand.

“That is not strictly true, Padawan,” interposed Qui-Gon, “this is not worth a great deal of money and it is a personal item. These sorts of things are allowed.”

Obi-Wan made no move to take it, so Qui-Gon took the box in his hands and stood up, to end the interview.

“I’ll just take it for him, for now,” Qui-Gon said smoothly.

“Yes, I understand. It’s all been such a shock,” Taran said, getting to his feet. He then added, “I am sorry if I have intruded. I hope that I can visit again. And my sister—our sister—Xenia wanted to come today, but I told her we shouldn’t all swoop down on you at once, but she _terribly_ wants to meet you. In order to come alone here today I had to promise I would try to arrange to have you meet her as soon as possible.”

“As you wish,” Obi-Wan said indifferently, perfunctorily getting to his feet.

Taran was obviously perceptive enough to understand that Obi-Wan had not really made an affirmation, for Taran added, awkwardly, “if you change your mind, please let me know.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said, putting out his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too,” Taran said gratefully, obviously really meaning it, pumping Obi-Wan’s hand with his own.

“I’ll see you out,” Qui-Gon said, getting up and indicating that he would walk Taran to the door.

“I can see myself out,” Taran said.

“No, not at all,” Qui-Gon said, “You are our guest.”

Walking Taran to the door, the moment he was out of Obi-Wan’s earshot Qui-Gon said softly, “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him.”

“Yes, please do,” Taran said, equally softly, “I’m sorry if the whole thing was— _shockin_ g to him.”

“He’ll be fine,” Qui-Gon said, not knowing if it was true, “I assume you are of the Farbright family here on Coruscant? In case Obi-Wan needs to reach you?”

“Yes,” Taran said seeming faintly embarrassed at admitting he was a member of a ridiculously rich and prominent family, “I am. Please tell my brother—Obi-Wan—I’d love to meet with him again. At a better time.”

“I will,” Qui-Gon said, quietly, then added loudly, “Have a good day!”

“You too, Master Jedi,” Taran said, matching his volume.

After the door had closed Qui-Gon walked back to Obi-Wan, who still stood there, with an blank expression on his face.

“I was planning to return to the Jedi library this afternoon, if you don’t mind, Master,” Obi-Wan said, in the same cool tone he had used with Taran.

“Actually, I _do_ mind,” Qui-Gon said, with a touch of unusual asperity, “Don’t you think we should talk about what just happened?”

“There is nothing to talk _about_ ,” Obi-Wan said in the same indifferent tone, “I suppose it is interesting to hear about my biological origins, but no more than that. I don’t know any of those people, and they do not know me. It has absolutely nothing to do with me.”

Qui-Gon was taken aback at the crisp tone of his Padawan, but he did not entirely believe him, because despite the fact that his face was calm and utterly collected Qui-Gon could sense a tension in his Padawan’s body, as if he was a bowstring too taut and about to snap.

“Did you want to talk about your father? And —your mother?” Qui-Gon asked pointedly.

“ _No_ ,” Obi-Wan said, “I wish to return to the Jedi library.”

That perfunctory tone made Qui-Gon even more exasperated. He could sense Obi-Wan’s pain, and confusion, and yet he could stand in front of him, denying everything, and claim he just wanted to return to his studies.

In his exasperation, and concern, Qui-Gon became completely direct.

“We should talk about your _feelings_ , Padawan—“

Obi-Wan made no reaction physically except for his hands tightening on the chair in front of him, his knuckles white. He said nothing for a long moment.

“I have tried for a long time now not to have any feelings,” Obi-Wan confessed suddenly.

“ _Everyone_ has feelings—“

Obi-Wan looked up at him. His expression was difficult to read, but there was anger—and _pain_ —in his blue eyes.

Obi-Wan added, abruptly, “And if I _had_ feelings, I would prefer not to talk about them with _you_.”

Qui-Gon felt a spasm of hurt at this statement, but he answered gently.

“I understand,” Qui-Gon said. For he did.

“If you will excuse me, I will head out to the library now, Master, unless you had something else for me?”

“Nothing now, Padawan. Yes, you may go,” Qui-Gon said. He did not want to merely accede to Obi-Wan leaving, but he seemed in so much pain, and refusing to deal with it, that Qui-Gon hoped that his Padawan would at least find some distraction in his studies.

 _And I cannot comfort him,_ Qui-Gon thought sadly. He looked down at his datapad so he did not see Obi-Wan leave.

Qui-Gon did not fully understand what was happening with Obi-Wan, so he felt powerless to help. It seemed to him that what had happened with Taran Farbright had set off some kind of strange reaction in Obi-Wan that Qui-Gon could not fully understand.

Obi-Wan was still performing excellently, as always, of course, but there was now always that tension there, as if he was a bowstring drawn far too tight and about to snap in two. He no longer seemed to be a brilliant automation, but Qui-Gon did not know if he should be relieved, as it seemed Obi-Wan had underneath feelings he could not process, feelings of anger, despair.

Qui-Gon did not know _what_ to do. Not for the first time, he regretted what had happened between them on Pyades.

If he had done the right thing, the _correct_ thing, and had directed Obi-Wan’s desires to their proper ends, instead of giving in to Obi-Wan’s pleadings, perhaps now he could reach out to Obi-Wan. His comfort would not be a source of temptation and further pain.

Qui-Gon understood, even if Obi-Wan did not, that Obi-Wan had the pain of utter abandonment. Qui-Gon yearned to say to his Padawan, “I will never leave you.” Yet those words echoed the words he had said the night he had held Obi-Wan in his arms after they had had sexual relations— _made love—_ so perhaps there would be no comfort there.

Instead, he had to watch his Padawan inwardly implode into some dark place, overwhelmed by emotions he could not process.

Obi-Wan was in tremendous pain, even though he could not acknowledge it.

Not for the first time, Qui-Gon thought about the possibility of Obi-Wan taking a lover. It was, of course, technically forbidden, but it seemed a common failing, one that was often overlooked. It was not the _apechthema_ of relations between Master and Padawan, merely a cause for chastisement, not a cause for disgust and exile.

Obi-Wan with a _lover_. The thought _pained_ Qui-Gon, made him angry, jealous, to even think of it. When he thought of Obi-Wan falling in love with someone, he felt a pain in his chest as if he was being crushed by a rock. Qui-Gon _hated_ himself for such feelings. It was an unworthy emotion, selfish, the feelings of a greedy old man. Qui-Gon had no compassion on himself for these feelings of jealousy. Did he _really_ expect Obi-Wan to remain tied to him in this impossible situation, never able to have love and be loved? Obi-Wan had a deep capacity to love, that Obi-Wan himself did not understand, always living in his mind. If he could love—not under the shade of abomination—perhaps Obi-Wan could access the feeling part of himself that would paradoxically make him a greater Jedi and, more importantly, happy and content.

Still. Qui-Gon thought of Obi-Wan sighing the night they had made love, his blue eyes luminescent.

 _I love you,_ Obi-Wan had said. Qui-Gon could not bear to think of it, those words to another.

 _But I will **have** to bear it, _Qui-Gon thought.

Qui-Gon had suggested to Obi-Wan taking a lover once before. They had returned from that Senate dinner, and Obi-Wan had had too much to drink. He was angry, jealous of the two silly girls flirting with his Master. As if there was anything to be jealous _of_. It was ridiculous. Obi-Wan had not seen the silly girls also giving _him_ glances, had not seen Qui-Gon’s _own_ jealous reaction at the girls obvious desire for his handsome Padawan.

Qui-Gon had seen the pain in Obi-Wan’s eyes—his loneliness. Qui-Gon longed to comfort his Padawan— _love_ him—but he knew such things between Master and Padawan were forbidden. _Apechthema_ , abomination, the old Jedi texts called it.

So Qui-Gon, his heart heavy with his own pain, had suggested Obi-Wan find a lover. His idealistic Padawan had refused. Not merely refuse, there had been _anger_. Perhaps, Qui-Gon thought, Obi-Wan imagined Qui-Gon had made that suggestion because he preferred to see his Padawan with someone else. _Nothing_ was further from the truth, but Qui-Gon could not tell him that.

And then there had been _that_ night. _The_ night on Pyades. The night before they were to die, so nothing _mattered_ , so Qui-Gon could reach out to heal Obi-Wan’s loneliness, love him, and fulfill the needs of his body. For one night, he could be not only Master, but Obi-Wan’s love--his _lover_ —too.

But that night, although long, had been only _one_ night. And they had not died, and Obi-Wan was now perhaps left more lonely and bereft than before.

Obi-Wan _needed_ love, even if he did not understand it himself.

There was no lack of possible lovers, although Obi-Wan never seemed to notice. _Qui-Gon_ noticed. Another _unworthy_ feeling, again! Qui-Gon had watched how others followed Obi-Wan with their eyes, or flirted with him, but his Padawan seemed oblivious. Qui-Gon struggled with feelings of jealousy, angry with himself whenever he felt the horrible jealousy whenever he saw how others desired Obi-Wan.

 _It would be **easy** for him to find a lover, _Qui-Gon admitted. His Padawan need only smile back at one of his many admirers.

His Padawan should find someone his own age, so he could be with that person for many years, someone who could be at his side, understand his duties as a Jedi. So a fellow Padawan, then. But someone who was sensible, someone kind, someone caring.

Qui-Gon’s mind ran over far too many possibilities.

 _Allona._ She was a big, tall, almost awkward girl, when she wasn’t sparring, when she had an astonishing grace. She had features too large for true beauty but her green gold eyes were mesmerizing.

She was even more awkward in her obvious crush, stammering whenever she talked to Obi-Wan, practically tripping over her feet, when she didn’t openly run away from him. She was so obvious in her crush for Obi-Wan—in truth Obi-Wan was the _only_ person who hadn’t noticed her feelings—that the other Padawans would good-naturedly tease her about it, making her blush beet-red.

 _Mellite._ She was a delicate slip of a girl, with beautiful blonde hair that fell in soft waves down her back. Her crush was nearly as obvious, but unlike Allona, she was more subtle and more seductive in her approach, finding excuses to talk to Obi-Wan and put her hand on his arm, smiling up into his eyes as she would toss her hair back with a graceful hand.

 _Tarquinus._ Arrogant, tall, and black-haired, he was hard to like but easy to admire, as he had real reasons for his arrogance, so brilliant and handsome was he. It was obvious he desired Obi-Wan, with the way he followed Obi-Wan with his dark blue—almost violet—eyes, and his respectful way of speaking to him. It was perhaps that he considered that he had finally found an equal in Qui-Gon’s Padawan, and sought to possess his match.

 _Milon._ Qui-Gon felt sorry sometimes for the large and brawny Milon, who had obviously fallen absolutely in love with Obi-Wan, and seemed unable to find a way to express it, other than challenge Obi-Wan to sparring matches where he could clutch at Obi-Wan and strike at him, because he yearned for physical closeness to him. Qui-Gon wondered if Milon himself even fully understood his own desires, but they were self-evident to almost everyone else, except of course Obi-Wan.

And there were _many_ others. So _many_ others it _hurt_ Qui-Gon to think of it.

 _But I must think of it,_ Qui-Gon thought again.

As Obi-Wan had fallen in love with him, Qui-Gon wasn’t entirely sure if his Padawan was responsive to a woman’s appeal. And Qui-Gon couldn’t certainly _ask._

Qui-Gon grimaced, _Should I ask him if he ever finds women attractive? If he asks why I want to know, of course, I’ll just tell him that for the first time in the entire history of the Jedi Order, a Master is trying to set up his Padawan with a lover._

 _Even if he finds women attractive, it could be more complicated._ If Obi-Wan had a woman lover, there would always be the possibility of a child. Qui-Gon found himself longing to see a child of Obi-Wan’s—such a child would have the same beautiful eyes, and perhaps something of his father’s pure and incorruptible nature? Qui-Gon sighed. He would be jealous of the relationship that produced a child, but at the same time he could not deny his longing for his Padawan to have children, as Qui-Gon had always longed to have children of his own.

All the same, practically, while the Jedi Council could—and _did_ —studiously overlook lovers, unless it was made ridiculously blatant, to the point where it was open defiance, they could certainly not overlook a new _life,_ so a woman lover could be more complicating. A _male_ lover might be a more simple and safe thing, then.

 _Milon._ He was not an obvious choice, but all the same Qui-Gon knew that the choice was the correct one. _Milon Taktos_. Obi-Wan’s sparring partner. Despite his brawn there was deep tenderness there; Qui-Gon could see it in his brown eyes.

He was no physical stunner like Tarquinus, but he good looking enough, and he was, despite his occasional awkwardness—particularly when it came to Obi-Wan—actually highly intelligent, and Qui-Gon had seen him frequently be kind and protective to the younger Padawans. He would be tender and protective of Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon knew that even though Milon was often tongue-tied, his feelings ran deep, and he truly seemed to _worship_ Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan would be _safe_ with him. And despite his brawn and skill in battle, Qui-Gon had the sense that Milon would be gentle in his lovemaking.

 _I can’t think of that._ Qui-Gon thought, squeezing his eyes shut.

It was an easy thing, to offhandedly suggest to Milon’s Master, Eudonia Mea that the two Padawans spend more time together, since they were already such _good_ friends, but perhaps _studying,_ rather than invariably sparring? Obi-Wan was renowned as such a truly brilliant and gifted Padawan that Eudonia had gratefully agreed to the suggestion.

Qui-Gon tried not to see, even with the corner of his eye, the two of them in each other’s company, the blonde head and the brown, the two of them now in the Jedi Library, reading a text together. Qui-Gon had also glimpsed them in one of the many parks of the Jedi Temple, playing an easy game of ball; Milon commented about something, which made Obi-Wan throw back his head and laugh in a way Qui-Gon had not heard in a very long time.

Qui-Gon hurried away, as if he had been intruding.

 _That’s how it often begins,_ Qui-Gon thought sadly. Yet he also felt hope, when Obi-Wan would come home, and casually comment about something amusing Milon had said, or some point of Jedi philosophy they had discussed.

 _Is it only in my mind, or does he seem a little more talkative? A little more at ease?_ Qui-Gon thought, in a mixture of hope and dread.

Qui-Gon had released Obi-Wan from his duties one night, suggesting to Eudonia Mea that the two Padawans be allowed to go up to the observation tower, to watch a lunar eclipse of the Coruscanti greater moon. It was only, Qui-Gon said casually, because Obi-Wan was such a good student of astronomy, and would be able to teach Milon about such things, and the greater moon was a much rarer eclipse, so it was something to be seen. And at total eclipse, rarer still, practically a once in a lifetime thing.

 _A once in a lifetime thing_. Qui-Gon’s voice almost failed him.

He watched Obi-Wan leave that night his back very straight; he seemed more at ease these days, but there was still that tension in his body, as if he always held within him some source of pain that he needed to guard against.

_My poor Padawan. Perhaps you will be healed, soon._

As Obi-Wan left, Qui-Gon could picture it. The two of them, in the darkened observation tower. Obi-Wan’s face turned up to the shadowed moon, Milon’s heart pounding fast as he took Obi-Wan in his arms, for that first sweet and tender kiss…

The black moon would make Milon bold. Would he speak of love?

Qui-Gon retreated to his sleep couch, but not to sleep. The room seemed unendurably hot, and he was tossing and turning on his sleep couch, thinking of Obi-Wan’s kiss.

It was several hours later when Obi-Wan returned. Qui-Gon pretended to sleep, not wanting to see Obi-Wan’s flushed face, his blue eyes soft with tenderness.

Obi-Wan abruptly turned on the light, his face horribly white and strained.

“Obi-Wan, what is it?” Qui-Gon asked, genuinely concerned.

“ _Milon!_ ” Obi-Wan spat.

Qui-Gon sat up in from his sleep couch, “What happened?”

“He tried to kiss me!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, horrified.

Qui-Gon did not react, but let Obi-Wan go on, “We were looking up through the telescope, in the observation tower, and he suddenly clutched at me, and then he tried to kiss me. I would have just stepped aside, but he was quite insistent, and I ended up having to push him away!”

Despite everything, Qui-Gon was relieved.

“Can you believe that he thought I would— _ugh_ ,” Obi-Wan shook his head.

Qui-Gon was silent.

“Would he really think that _he_ — _that_ he and I—and _I_ —that I _would_ —“Obi-Wan went on. It seemed like for the first time he noted that Qui-Gon was silent.

“Why do you say _nothi_ n _g_? Does that _not_ —“Obi-Wan cut himself off and looked at Qui-Gon, as if there was a dawning suspicion in his mind.

“You are _not_ surprised,” he said, accusatorily.

Qui-Gon was about to speak, but Obi-Wan did not give him an opportunity.

“You encouraged me to go out with him, knowing he might-he might—he _might_ —“Obi-Wan’s face went stern. “ _Sorry_ to disappoint,” he spat. Obi-Wan turned away, to face the wall, breathing hard, seemingly lest he explode.

“It’s not what you think.”

“ _Isn’t_ it? My own _Master_ wanted to _whore_ me out—“

“ _Obi-Wan_ ,” Qui-Gon said warningly.

“I apologize for my _language_ , Master,” Obi-Wan said curtly. It was obvious he did not apologize for the meaning of his words.

Qui-Gon fell silent for a moment. _How_ could he make his Padawan understand? It was _not_ a lack of love on his part.

 _No,_ Qui-Gon thought, _I love him **too** much._

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said gently, to his back, “I—I don’t want you to be in pain. I want you to find _love_ —“

Obi-Wan spun around, his blue eyes meeting his Master’s. “I _have_ love,” Obi-Wan said deliberately, “even if the one I love will not accept it.” Obi-Wan hesitated for a moment, as if gathering up his courage, and then he said daringly, “I love _you.”_ ”

“You should _not_ say that to me,” Qui-Gon said, “I am your—“

“ _Master_ ,” Obi-Wan finished for him coldly, “But I think I have an _excuse_ , don’t you think? I mean, it isn’t _every_ day your Jedi Master encourages you to have sex—with a _stranger_ —“At that last part Obi-Wan's voice got more strident, rising in anger again.

“Milon is your friend,” Qui-Gon said mildly.

“And that is all he will _ever_ be to me,” Obi-Wan retorted, “If you won’t— _can’t_ —have me, I will _never_ be with anyone else.”

“You _cannot_ mean that,” Qui-Gon said harshly. He was harsher in his tone than would be expected because at that same moment some very selfish part of himself rejoiced at Obi-Wan’s declaration.

“ _Yes_ ,” Obi-Wan said equally harshly, “I mean _exactly_ what I say. If I cannot be with you, I will not be with anyone else. And even though I am bound to complete obedience, I doubt your conscience will command me to find a lover.”

“Of course not,” Qui-Gon said. “But you can’t be— _alone_. You are in _pain—"_

“I am _always_ alone, and finding a lover will not help my pain,” Obi-Wan replied without the slightest trace of self-pity, “Only _one_ person can help my pain. But the one I _want_ to be close to doesn’t want to be close to _me_. Wants to push me off on another.”

“I _don’t_ —“Qui-Gon said, then knew he had said too much. He fell back on the word that was always between them.

“ _Apechthema,”_ Qui-Gon said.

At the unforgiving word, Obi-Wan stumbled back a step, but then seemed to find his bearings. Obi-Wan straightened up with a grave dignity, belied by a shaking in his body; to Qui-Gon’s shock he seemed to be blinking back tears.

“I love _you_ ,” Obi-Wan said, his eyes dark, “I won’t hurt you. I won’t take a lover—but I’ll manage. I’ll leave you alone. It—doesn’t matter. I can live cut off from my emotions. For a long time I didn’t know I even _had_ emotions. I can live. I will just not be _alive_.”

His body still shaking, Obi-Wan ran from the room.

Alarmed, Qui-Gon leapt up from his sleep couch. Obi-Wan was in the darkened hallway, reaching for his cloak.

“What do you mean—not be alive?” Qui-Gon demanded.

Obi-Wan pulled on his cloak. He did not answer.

“What do you mean?” Qui-Gon demanded again.

“I’m not going to hurt myself, if that’s what you are afraid of,” Obi-Wan snapped, “You’ve done your proper _duty_ by checking up on me—so now you can let me _go_.”

“That’s not all I’m afraid of,” Obi-Wan said, unsatisfied, “What do you mean—not be alive?”

“I don’t know _what_ I mean,” Obi-Wan said, and now his eyes were filling with tears in earnest, “Maybe I’ll just go through the motions of living, asleep or _half-dead_ —I’ve gotten good at it over the past year.”

“Obi-Wan, that’s why I—“

Obi-Wan cut him off, “I’m sure your _intentions_ are always good. But please, just let me _go._ Let me go to the Jedi Library—“ Obi-Wan made for the door.

“You are _not_ going anywhere,” Qui-Gon said. He grabbed his Padawan’s wrist.

At this touch, it seemed Obi-Wan finally snapped. “Do not _touch_ me!” Obi-Wan screamed, pulling his arm away, “I _hate_ when you touch me!”

Alarmed at such an extreme reaction from his normally composed Padawan, Qui-Gon let go of Obi-Wan’s wrist, but he stepped between Obi-Wan and the door. “I am _not_ letting you leave,” Qui-Gon said calmly.

“Let me go—let me study— _Please!_ —or let me _drink_ —just let me go— _Please!_ Get away from the _door!_ “ Obi-Wan pleaded desperately.

“Let me help you,” Qui-Gon said quietly.

“Let me _go_!” Obi-Wan said, crying openly now, “ _Please_ —“

“No,” Qui-Gon said harshly, “I have only _hurt_ you. Let me _help_ you, now.”

Almost roughly, Qui-Gon pulled Obi-Wan close, and held him tightly in his arms. At this embrace, Obi-Wan finally broke down, weeping, clutching at his Master.

“Everything hurts. I felt _nothing_. Then _him_. He said he was my brother. Such a lie! Always _abandoned._ _You_ abandoned me too,” Obi-Wan said, close to nonsensically.

“I am _not_ abandoning you,” Qui-Gon promised huskily, there in the dark hallway, before leaning in and kissing Obi-Wan deliberately on the mouth.

“You should _not_ —” breathed Obi-Wan, when Qui-Gon broke the kiss.

“You are _not_ going anywhere,” Qui-Gon repeated obstinately, pulling Obi-Wan in to kiss him again, this time not only firmly but also passionately, his mouth hot and hard on Obi-Wan’s.

When he stepped back from the kiss, Qui-Gon carefully pulled off Obi-Wan’s cloak, and hung it back up on its proper peg.

Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan by the hand. This time Obi-Wan did not pull his hand away.

“ _Come_ with me,” Qui-Gon ordered, gently but firmly pulling Obi-Wan with him down the hallway.

Deliberately, Qui-Gon opened the door to their sleeping quarters.

Obi-Wan hesitated at the doorway, trembling with desire and fear for his Master.

“I would never lead you into any wrong—“Obi-Wan protested.

“I _know_ ,” Qui-Gon said, carefully but deliberately pulling Obi-Wan over the threshold.

“ _Apechthema_ ,” Obi-Wan whispered.

“Shut _up,_ ” Qui-Gon said, hoarsely, taking Obi-Wan’s face into his hands, and kissing him again.

In a few moments, still kissing him, Qui-Gon had carefully but decisively pushed Obi-Wan further into their sleeping quarters. When Obi-Wan’s lower legs made contact with his sleep couch, he half sat-half fell.

Qui-Gon pulled off his boots, and then his tunic, with gentle but deliberate hands.

“ _Don’t_ —“Obi-Wan said, when Qui-Gon’s hands went to his belt, “You will see—my _reaction_. I am _ashamed_.”

“There is no shame in _you_ , only in _me,_ ” Qui-Gon said resolutely, “ _You_ are without fault.”

“ _No_. I _can’t_ hurt you—“Obi-Wan said, grabbing his Master’s hands and attempting to pull them off his belt. His whole body was trembling with desire, so it was painfully obvious that he wanted sexual release with his Master, and he was protesting only to protect Qui-Gon.

“You are _not_ hurting me. Don’t you remember?”Qui-Gon asked him tenderly, and then, as if he was instructing Obi-Wan about the Jedi Code, Qui-Gon, carefully recited the ancient Jedi instruction, as he slowly and deliberately undid Obi-Wan’s belt. “Such _apechthema_ is _always_ the Master’s fault.”

“Empty words. _Don’t_ ,” Obi-Wan pleaded, catching Qui-Gon’s hands.

“Such _apechthema_ is always, and without exception, the Master’s fault,” Qui-Gon reminded him his voice a little more severe, pulling his hands from Obi-Wan's so he could continue to undress him, “The Padawan is bound to complete obedience. The transgression of the a _pechthema_ falls solely upon me, as you _must_ obey me; in yielding to me, you are only obeying my command.”

Qui-Gon meticulously unfastened Obi-Wan’s belt with his hands.

“You _must_ obey,” Qui-Gon insisted, “You _will_ let me relieve you. I _command_ it.”

At this firm instruction, Obi-Wan sobbed a little from profound relief, and the horrible tension finally left his body. Qui-Gon’s command and his willingness to accept all responsibility for whatever was happening meant that Obi-Wan did not have to painfully struggle against what he so desperately needed.

In a few moments Qui-Gon stripped him completely naked. Obi-Wan was obviously violently aroused for his penis was completely erect and glistening wet.

Qui-Gon gently took Obi-Wan’s hard penis in his skilled hands.

At the touch, Obi-Wan gasped, “ _Please_ —“

Qui-Gon began to stroke Obi-Wan’s penis. In a few moments Obi-Wan squirmed a little, tensing his body.

Qui-Gon kissed his Padawan’s neck, “What is it?” he asked, concerned.

“Too _soon,_ ” Obi-Wan groaned frantically, clenching his teeth, “I am not a _boy_ —“

Qui-Gon understood. “But I _want_ you to orgasm. It would _please_ me.”

This command from his Master was enough to cause Obi-Wan to have a violent orgasm, his whole body shaking, which made him cry out as he ejaculated forcefully for a few moments into his Master’s hands.

After he came, Obi-Wan felt suddenly shy. He did not meet his Master’s eyes but buried his burning face in Qui-Gon’s shoulder. Qui-Gon was still carefully holding his Padawan’s penis cupped between his hands.

“I have made a mess,” Obi-Wan said into Qui-Gon’s shoulder, obviously embarassed, meaning the wetness now on his Master’s sleeves and on his hand.

“ _Not_ a mess,” Qui-Gon corrected gallantly. He got up and went into the fresher for a few moments to clean his hands, and then returned to his Padawan’s sleep couch, pulling off his boots before lying down. He drew Obi-Wan close, gently stroking his Padawan’s hair.

Lying next to him, Obi-Wan could feel the rigid hardness of Qui-Gon’s prominent erection against his leg, but Qui-Gon acted as if he was oblivious to his own physical reaction, his hands very gentle as he stroked Obi-Wan’s hair and kissing him lightly on the brow.

“Master…..”

“Yes, Obi-Wan?”

“What about _you?_ ”

Qui-Gon shook his head. “Do not worry.”

Obi-Wan reached down and lightly touched his Master’s erect penis through his clothes. Qui-Gon immediately moved Obi-Wan’s hand away, but softened the rejection by kissing the palm.

“Don’t make it more difficult than it is,” Qui-Gon said gently.

“But _your_ release—“

“—is of no consequence,” finished Qui-Gon. “The tension will subside on its own.” Qui-Gon rolled over on his back and pulled Obi-Wan close so he could lie in the crook of his arm.

Obi-Wan could feel the strong beat of his Master’s heart, and the stirring of his Master’s breath in his hair.

“Master—“

“Yes, Obi-Wan?”

“Are you not letting me touch you—because it is _apechthema_?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Isn’t touching me— _apechthema_?”

Qui-Gon sighed, “ _Yes._ But it is a matter of degree.”

“There are degrees of _apechthema_?” Obi-Wan was puzzled, "I have never read that in any Jedi text.”

“That’s because it’s not written anywhere,” Qui-Gon said, with at touch of self-deprecating humor, “But what is _right_ is _also_ not always written anywhere. For what is right is not always so clear. I must confess, I do not entirely know how to do right by you. I know what I have done today is forbidden, but I also know I have hurt you, and I will not abandon you.”

“And you _love_ me,” Obi-Wan added shyly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Qui-Gon said, closing his eyes, “Although I _should_ not.”

“The Jedi said that it is never wrong to love,” Obi-Wan reminded him.

“I do not think they meant like _this_ ,” Qui-Gon said, laughing a little, then amended, “Actually, I am _sure_ they did not.”

“Master—“

“Yes, Obi-Wan?”

“Do I— _please_ you?” Obi-Wan asked bashfully, indicating his naked body.

Qui-Gon felt a profound tenderness for his Padawan, for although he was usually modest about his body, he did not cover himself in front of his Master’s eyes, his nakedness a vulnerable gift to the one he loved.

“Yes. _Very_ much,” Qui-Gon said, his voice husky, and then grimaced, “Although I should _not_ be so pleased.”

“Someone once told me I was hot,” Obi-Wan said blushing a little, and refusing to meet his Master’s eyes, “I hoped _you_ might think so, too.”

“ _Yes_. You are _very_ hot,” Qui-Gon confessed. “But should I be _jealous_? Did Milon say that to you?”

“No, it was the woman who wanted to take me home the night of our _Sokrateion._ She said you were definitely missing out.” Obi-Wan said teasingly.

“And so I _was_ ,” Qui-Gon said, rolling over to kiss Obi-Wan again. After only a few minutes the kissing became more intense, and suddenly Qui-Gon seemed to remember himself and pulled away, to rest his head against Obi-Wan’s neck. “I _should_ stop,” Qui-Gon sighed, “As you _correctly_ pointed out, you are _very_ hot.”

In response, Obi-Wan reached for the lacings of his Master’s tunic.

“If I could just _see_ you—“Obi-Wan pleaded softly,

Qui-Gon snorted a laugh, gently pulling his Padawan’s hands away from his clothes, “Not _again!_ I have learned my lesson from _last_ time. If you get my clothes off me—I fear my self control will not match my good intentions.”

“I _liked_ seeing you. It made me feel close to you,” Obi-Wan said innocently, but then added, with a mischievous smile, “And you are _also_ very hot.”

“ _Shameless_!” Qui-Gon mock-admonished, laughing, making Obi-Wan laugh as well.

But Obi-Wan became suddenly serious. He hesitated, but then asked a tentative question, as if afraid of the answer, “Master, you won’t ever try to set me up with a lover again, will you?” 

“No. _Never_. Although I _should_.”

“No,” Obi-Wan corrected him, “You should _not_. For I am _yours_. And you—are _mine_.” There was hesitation in the second part of that statement, as If he was afraid Qui-Gon would deny this.

Qui-Gon rolled over so he could look into Obi-Wan’s eyes. It was a long moment before he spoke. His dark blue eyes were both melancholy and tender, as if he had finally come to a difficult resolution.

After a moment, Qui-Gon admitted quietly, “ _Yes_. I am yours.”

Obi-Wan smiled at this, and his smile was boyish, dazzling. "I am _happy_ , Master." He laughed a joyful laugh, throwing his head back on the pillow. In that moment, to Qui-Gon's eyes, Obi-Wan seemed painfully young and infinitely precious.

"As am I," Qui-Gon admitted. "Even though I know it to be wrong, I am happy here with you."

Obi-Wan twined his fingers between his Masters, "Now that is decided, what will happen now? About— _us_? What are we going to _do_?"

“I—don’t know. But we will just have to do the best we can,” Qui-Gon said finally. “Sometimes, as the Jedi philosophers say, that is all we _can_ do, and that is all that can be expected of us.”

“ _Nothing_ matters, as long as we are together,” Obi-Wan said solemnly, as if he was sweating an oath, “I don’t care _what_ happens. As long as you don’t abandon me.”

“I _won’t_ ,” Qui-Gon promised, an oath in return, before kissing him again.

The building was in one of the most exclusive and expensive parts of Coruscant, rising high even in the elevated Coruscanti skyline, but such things did not impress Obi-Wan, raised as he was by the Jedi to distain all wealth.

It was not the obvious wealth of the occupants that made him nervous.

At the door, was a droid majordomo, designed to look very humanoid and pleasant to make guests comfortable, but Obi-Wan was not fooled. He knew enough about security that he knew this benign looking droid could turn on its dangerous security functions, if he needed to protect the family that lived there.

“I’d like to see the Master of the House,” Obi-Wan said simply.

“May I ask who is calling?” the droid replied politely.

“Tell him—tell him it’s a Jedi,” Obi-Wan said, “He’ll know who I am.”

“I see,” the droid said. If he was surprised at the cryptic message, his programming was too polite to show it.

“You may wait in the receiving hall, while the Master is informed of your presence,” the droid said. At his words, the seemingly flimsy metal door slid open, but Obi-Wan had no doubt that it was the same as the droid—elegant, seemingly benign, but bristling with secret security features.

Entering, Obi-Wan was impressed. In the receiving hall, everything was of absolutely impeccable taste, and less ostentatious than of an artistic style that spoke of an original mind. There were small elegant statues, abstract in design, but sensual with curve and gleaming in the light. There were paintings too, some small, some large, abstract but also representational, each with vivid color and elegant lines.

Obi-Wan was looking at one of the paintings—it seemed of a glimmering dawn on some mysterious and barren planet—so intently that he was startled when Taran came down the lift.

Taran was again impeccably dressed, this time in a soft green tunic and pants, and fine leather shoes, each item carefully designed and crafted but without ostentation. However, in contrast to his elegant dress he was obviously nervous, running his hands through his dark red hair and mussing it terribly. His hair was slightly wavy so it ended up sticking up slightly, which Obi-Wan found strangely endearing, which was odd as the man was basically a stranger.

Taran smiled nervously, “I was _hoping_ it was you,” he said.

Obi-Wan nodded, as he was at a rare loss of what to say.

“This painting is beautiful,” Obi-Wan finally said, indicating the painting with incline of his head.

It was true, but it was an obvious thing to fall back on.

“Xenia painted it,” Taran said, to Obi-Wan’s surprise. “She’s quite the artist. She’s like my— _our_ —mother. She paints and sculpts. Most of these things aren’t collectors’ items, they are things m—our sister or mother made.”

“She’s very talented.” Obi-Wan said. It was again an obvious thing to say, almost trite, but easier to say than getting to the point on why Obi-Wan was there. If Taran was annoyed by this, he did not show it, only smiled nervously again.

“ _Yes_ ,” Taran agreed, then asked, “Can I show you another work?”

Obi-Wan nodded. Taran led him to a vase on a pedestal. It was of delicate white bone porcelain, and had been obviously shattered, but repaired carefully at the fractures with gold and silver.

“ _Khursosiaomai_ ” Obi-Wan stated, “I have heard of the technique, but this is an exquisite example.”

“Xenia made it,” Taran said, “it was a vase of our mother’s.”

After a moment, Taran added “The technique—it takes _broken_ things, and makes them more beautiful and _stronger_ for the breaking.”

Taran’s comment invited one in return from Obi-Wan, but Obi-Wan hesitated for a moment in response, before finally saying, “And your mother—was _she_ broken?”

“Our mother,” Taran corrected gently. “ _Yes_ …and no. She had our father, and us, but she lost you.”

“ _Lost?_ ” Obi-Wan corrected, with a touch of asperity. He did not consider deliberately being left as an infant with the Jedi as being “lost.”

Taran caught his meaning, but did not challenge him directly, but simply replied, “It may not always seem that way, but people usually do the best they can.”

Taran’s words, echoing Qui-Gon’s, made Obi-Wan blink. “My— _someone I love,_ said that too.” Obi-Wan said.

Taran showed no surprise at a Jedi using the word love, but only said, “That person is wise.” Taran sighed, “I am not sure if the vase really represents our mother, or what Xenia hoped for our mother—and hoped for us.”

At Obi-Wan’s puzzled look, Taran added, “ _We_ —Xenia and I—lost _you_ , too.”

Taran then fell silent, for which Obi-Wan was grateful.

The two of them stood in silence, two strangers born of the same mother, staring at a vase that had been shattered but now healed with veins of silver and gold.

“You seem— _different_ ,” Taran said suddenly.

In his surprise, Obi-Wan let out a laugh, “I _am_ different. I am in a very different place then when you saw me last. _Safer_.”

Taran nodded like he understood, but it was obvious he didn’t entirely.

Obi-Wan felt, after he had been so rude to this young man, that he deserved more of the truth. “It’s difficult to explain. And I’m not sure how everything is going to work out, but I finally trust it will… _somehow_.”

“I’m _glad_ ,” Taran said, obviously really meaning it, even if he didn't fully understand, but then fell silent again. It seemed Taran was still regarding Obi-Wan warily, as if he was afraid at any moment that this pleasant interaction would change into something icy cold.

“ _Look_ , Mr. Farbright--”

“ _Taran_ ,” Taran corrected him.

“Taran—“Obi-Wan said, awkwardly, “can we just start over? I don’t think we began right.”

“I’m truly sorry that I just burst in on you like that—“Taran said apologetically.

“ _No_. Not _you_. _Me_. I was an idiot. It wasn’t you. It’s what I said before—I was in a bad place. I couldn’t process anything. I thought I had no feelings. Or I wanted to have no feelings. _Ugh,_ this isn’t coming out right.”

“It’s coming out exactly right,” Taran said, and for the first time he smiled without seeming nervous.

“But now—I’m not sure _how_ everything will work out. But it’s still better. I can deal with— _things_. I can't say that I'm perfect, but I _won’t_ be that idiot again,” Obi-Wan finished. He did not say more.

“You were never an idiot; only my brother,” Taran said suddenly, “And maybe we can deal with— _things_ … _together?_ It can’t be fixed, but maybe it can be beautiful, like the vase. _Stronger_ because it was broken.”

Obi-Wan nodded. He did not trust himself to speak.

“Did I say something wrong?” Taran asked.

“Not at all,” Obi-Wan said.

“I’m glad you are here,” Taran said.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” Obi-Wan said, and to his surprise he meant it.

“Do you think—do you think you would want to meet our sister?” Taran asked tentatively, “She’s right upstairs, and she really wants to meet you. When she heard there was a Jedi down here, she thought it was you too, and I had to keep telling her we shouldn’t come down like a marauding army. I told her we might _scare_ you.”

“I don’t scare easily,” Obi-Wan joked, then amended thoughtfully, “Maybe that’s _not_ true. I’m _not_ scared of things most people are scared of, like physical pain, like _dying_ —I’m scared of _feeling_. At least I _was_.”

"But not anymore,” Taran prompted, with a hopeful smile.

“ _No_ ,” Obi-Wan said, surprising himself. Then, “I’d like to meet her. Now, if she’d like to meet me.”

"I think we’d have to ship her to another planet to keep her away,” Taran said humorously, his brown eyes sparkling, “come upstairs with me. I’ll tell her our guess was _right_ —that our _brother_ is here. That is, if you don’t mind—me calling—I mean—“

“You can call me your brother,” Obi-Wan said, smiling at him.


End file.
